Chapter Text
His father was dying, and none of the physicians seemed able to save him.
He had summoned shamans from Vask and healers from Patras. Nearly a hundred hiereus and sorcerers had passed through the royal chambers, smug until their supposed powers proved useless in healing the Exalted King of Akielos.
Damianos grew more desperate with each passing day. He was not ready to lose his father.
That was when a Veretian physician, introduced by Nikandros, whispered the most dangerous idea of all: «There are old myths… The Gloaming Court is hidden in the Forest of Arles. They are not kind—quite the opposite—but for a price, they might grant even the most desperate wish». Damen had heard such tales as a child and dismissed them as pure fantasy. They had always seemed like foolish justifications for the vaskian invaders’ repeated failures to conquer the wild land of Vere. Why waste time on childish nonsense? Far better were the real stories of his ancestors, the great kings of Akielos, from whom he must learn if he was to become a worthy king in the future.
Now, watching his father’s life fade day by day, the journey northwest to that infamous forest no longer seemed so absurd.
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Jokaste bade him farewell with coldness. There wasn’t a trace of affection in her blue eyes. She had opposed the mad plan from the very beginning, incredulous of the veretian tales about fantastical creatures that could grant wishes, and she had tried night after night to change his mind until she finally gave up. There was a hint of resentment in her words that Damianos chose to ignore for the moment. She had to understand that everything was done out of love for his father.
— I believe you will not return. Not alive.
— Do you have so little faith in me? — He tried to stay optimistic, but the woman in his arms only pulled away.
— If you’re so eager to die, go ahead. I’m tired of repeating that this is a terrible idea.
— My Lady Jokaste…
In the light of dawn, her golden hair shone even brighter. She was beautiful—the most beautiful woman in Akielos—and Damen hoped that once she became his wife, his heart would belong to her completely. She could be cold and distant, yes, but with the right touch she would burn in his hands…
He pushed the melancholic thoughts aside, unwilling to cloud their parting. His men were ready, the ship already loaded; only Damianos remained on shore.
There was no time to lose.
He bid his lady farewell with a chaste kiss to the palm of her left hand and boarded the vessel that would carry him to Vere.
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Kastor lingered in the shadows, his gaze satisfied as he watched the ship recede farther from the akielon shores. Beside him, Lady Jokaste stood without turning, perfectly aware of why he was there.
— He will not return alive.
— No, he will not. It seems I no longer need to deal with him. He’s removed himself from my path. How funny.
— I suppose you’ll celebrate with a banquet tonight.
— Perhaps… or perhaps not. Either way, you are invited to join me in my chambers today.
Jokaste didn’t look at the prince, even at words that—to other ears—would sound like treason. And they were.
She cast a glance toward the horizon, where the ship vanished into the deep waters of the Ellosean Sea. Kastor’s offer to make her father Kyros of Aegina once he sat on the throne was tempting. As long as Theomedes ruled, her father would remain nothing more than an aging captain whose past glories the new generations had already forgotten. Under Damianos’s reign, it wouldn’t be different: he clung stubbornly to old traditions and would keep Heiron as Kyros, even if he married her and named her The Queen. There were no brothers to bring honor to the house. Her mother was too old to bear a son whose military triumphs might once again raise her father’s name. There was only Jokaste. Perhaps she bore no belt notched with victories, no tally of laurel crowns from the Okton. But she had her own weapons, and she knew how to set her heart aside when necessary.
— Then I will see you after sunset.
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While the Daylight Court lay toward Kempt, the Gloaming Court resided in the northwest, in Arles. On board the ship, Damen had time to refresh his memory with the stories: bloated, rotting corpses appearing at the forest’s edge, unrecognizable to their families. Children were swapped or stolen in the night. Howls of ghostly hounds beneath the full moon. People vanishing mid-task, only to return hollow — eyed and soulless, muttering madness. Deceptive rings of flowers that led to a world not meant for human eyes. Songs in ancient veretian, too old to be fully understood, lure the listeners to dance until they die — frozen and exhausted during the darkest winter nights.
The inhabitants of the Arles forest were monsters… but they could grant wishes. If he negotiated wisely, he could win.
Damen only had to be cleverer.
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The voyage was unnaturally calm. The winds were in their favor, and they arrived early. No storms, no dangerous waves battered the ship. The cold on land was bearable, and there were no signs yet that autumn had begun to devour the life of the oaks and poplars.
Damianos ignored the wary stares of the veretians when they disembarked at Marches and set out toward Arles. He knew a contingent of akielons would draw suspicion, but he hoped to pass unnoticed until he reached his grim destination.
Along the way, in the various inns where they stopped for the night, he learned not to speak the name «Gloaming Court» aloud. It was as if everyone feared mentioning it, fleeing at his clumsy attempts to learn more. The veretians, as always, preferred oblique and complicated ways of referring to what they didn’t wish to name. «The Kindly Court» or «The Gentle Folk» were the favored euphemisms for the creatures dwelling in their Enchanted Wood. The prince found it ridiculous, but he quickly adapted to the chosen vocabulary. A few veretians were gentle enough to share warnings born of experience that books couldn’t provide. Damen thanked each one sincerely.
The akielon group eventually traveled in company with a talkative cloth merchant and his wagons: a man named Charls who seemed far more interested in selling them fabric for chitons than in questioning why a supposed akielon noble was heading north.
On the last day of travel, Damen dared to ask the same question he had posed in every tavern and inn between Marches and Barbin.
— Is it true what they say about the forests of Arles?
Charls paled in the firelight. A terrible silence fell; the merchant’s few companions looked at the akielon travelers as though they were already ghosts, or corpses. Men condemned to death without knowing it.
— I would not recommend going there, good lord.
— It’s true, then.
Fresh wood cracked on the dying fire as Damen watched Charls twist his hands in his lap in a nervous gesture he had come to recognize over so many days of travel. His assistant, Guillaime, looked like he was ready to grab his master and run.
— They don’t like visitors— Charls said, his voice nearly drowned by the crackling flames—. Whatever you seek there, you won’t leave alive.
Damen insisted.
— I have to find one of them. To negotiate.
An exchange of glances passed between the merchant and his assistant.
— There is always a price, good Lord. Terrible prices that are not worth paying. They’re cruel... please, don’t go. There is still time to turn back and go home.
— There isn’t another option.
His men shifted uneasily, while the veretians in the convoy remained pale and silent, almost too afraid to speak.
Charls frowned, realizing his warnings wouldn’t be heeded.
— At least… at least listen carefully. That Court is divided. These are only murmurs, mere gossip that could be false… but perhaps…
— Every piece of information is valuable, Charls.
The man hesitated, unsure whether to continue, but something in Damen’s eyes urged him on.
— Many years ago, the King of the Forest married a Lady from the Other Court. It was hoped the enmity between the two courts would end, but the sudden death of the Lady rekindled the division… yet she bore him two sons.
— And how does that help me?
— The most vicious ones will not hear pleas. They will kill you… or use you as bait for their hunting hounds. But… the King’s heir formed his own faction. It’s said they wear a starburst embroidered on their robes or inked into their skin. They might listen… for a price.
The conversation ended there. Charls said nothing more, his dark eyes lost in the void. Then he rose and began preparing for the night.
Damen watched the fire die slowly as his men dispersed around him. Despite the cold that began to sour their moods, it wasn’t safe to keep the fire burning at night. «You did not want to draw the attention of Them too soon. You must sleep in absolute darkness, and do not open your eyes even if someone calls your name. Never open your eyes before sunrise».
Charls knows more than he says, Damen thought belatedly, watching the man speak quietly with his assistant before lying down. Maybe he could question him a little more over breakfast. Pallas had already spread his sleeping roll and arranged pillows for him. He fell asleep quickly, exhaustion weighing more heavily than the cold. There weren’t any disturbances during the night. Perhaps the veretians simply exaggerated their stories, as always.
In the morning, Charls and his wagons had vanished without a trace.
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The soldiers he had brought grew increasingly restless. Pallas told him something felt wrong in the air. Everything felt wrong, yet even their warrior instincts couldn’t identify what. The cold was harsh, the food tasted unpleasant, the wine was terrible, and the veretians were bewildering. Dimas and Heraclio muttered about strange visions at the edges of the road that required hard blinks to make disappear.
Damen only nodded at his men’s complaints and continued leading the procession to the forest’s entrance, without admitting aloud that he too had seen wandering shadows; that he had heard the echo of dark laughter in the distance.
The Forest of Arles stretched before him.
Aktis carried a chest of jewels to serve as an offering. Damen had sacrificed a ring that belonged to his mother and a necklace originally bought in the port of Marches to gift to Lady Jokaste. Faithful Pallas bore a basket with a wineskin of the finest red wine they had brought from Ios and the best fruits they could find in the small nearby market, alongside Lydos, who carried two blood-red cloaks finely ornamented. It was all he had to offer: had he known better, he would have loaded the ship with more exotic treasures to bribe one of those dark creatures. Maybe they were like crows, coveting shiny objects and hoarding them in their nests.
— We’re going into the forest. Don’t separate, keep the march, and don’t falter: no matter what you see or hear. Do not eat anything you find, do not drink from any stream. If we leave here alive, you will all be rewarded by the Exalted One and me.
At first, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. No magical portal had swept them into a dream world. They saw only trees, climbing vines, and some birds singing.
But then the shadows grew sharper and darker, even as rays of sunlight still filtered through the treetops. The air around them felt stifling, heavy. A sweetish scent wafted from parasitic vines and flooded his nose, but Damen refused to let the alluring perfume dull him. Everything could be a trap. They pressed on, without deviating from the path that the trees seemed to indicate with their leaning branches and trunks.
Heraclio was the one who raised the alarm, upon seeing a corpse in the middle of the rugged path they followed on pure instinct. Their war-trained horses halted in fright at something only they seemed to see.
A serpent with blue scales and an unusually long body coiled among the hooves of the herd, startling them further. That was enough for the Prince’s horse to rear and bolt deep into the forest, despite Damen’s attempts to calm it and stay on the path.
He didn’t fall from his mount thanks to years of experience and training, but no matter how he tried to regain control, his horse wouldn’t stop.
Suddenly, there were only white flashes and nausea. That was all he could feel before his poor stallion collapsed, throwing him to the side. He managed to free his leg from beneath the animal, with only superficial wounds that burned in the cold air, but nothing to indicate a broken bone. Damen had been lucky… luckier than his poor dying horse. The viper had bitten one of its legs. He approached to stroke its muzzle sadly before looking up and seeing beyond a narrow line of twisted old trees, a clearing.
He started by realizing it had grown dark —he clearly remembered sunlight overhead—. How was that possible? They had entered the forest with the sun shining high in the sky, but now moonlight illuminated the clearing.
He weighed his options, not confident enough to venture forward. He had to return to his men, he had to…
Damen stopped upon seeing blue silk tents in the clearing.
A small campfire burned, and near it stood a well. A white foal seemed to trot between the tents as if looking for someone to play with.
For a moment, he wondered if it was another traveler. Perhaps he could borrow a dagger to end his horse’s suffering since his sword had been lost in the wild ride… then he thought better of it, realizing he was nearly unarmed. He could fight well without weapons, but a sharp blade was never unwelcome. Should he approach…?
Damen’s mind went blank: a figure emerged from among the tents and began drawing water from the well.
If Jokaste seemed beautiful to him, the figure lowering the bucket into the depths of the well was even more so. He wore a crown of blue flowers with small ivy leaves woven into his blond locks, which seemed to glow under the moonlight. His skin was white as the sands of Ishtima’s shores, and though his clothing was strange—a mixture of dark leathers tightly laced and deep blue silks far removed from the simplicity of chitons—he couldn’t help but trace with his eyes the places where the ties marked his waist and the delicate line of his hips. He was barefoot yet bore no wounds… as if the thorns dared not harm him.
Any doubt that he might be a lost traveler vanished when he saw the pointed ears and the sapphire eyes that, far from sharing the warmth of the fire, gleamed cold as they fixed on Damen like a precisely aimed arrow.
Ah, this was one of the Gentle Folk.
The gaze didn’t waver, even as the beautiful creature began pulling the rope to retrieve his laden bucket. Damen felt evaluated, as if the creature could open his head, take his thoughts, and study them with the clarity of one reading the pages of a book one by one.
— Well? Aren’t you going to come closer? — The voice was icy and dispassionate, but there wasn’t a trace of the amused malice he had expected from their kind.
He paused to glance at his still-dying stallion at the forest’s edge.
— Why do you let that poor horse suffer?
— A viper bit it, if you...
The fae drew his bucket from the well, huffing in annoyance.
— Come here.
Was it an order? Damen didn’t obey—he wasn’t accustomed to taking orders—but then noises behind him made him whirl around, startled: his horse had just risen and was now staggering toward the authoritative voice that had summoned it. The foal circled they and Damen watched in fascination as it seemed to blur at the edges, almost as if the mist that sometimes formed on the coast had taken the shape of a horse.
Once it was near, the fae placed the bucket of water within reach of his stallion, coaxing it in whispers to drink. For a moment, his expression softened, setting aside the coldness with which he had faced Damen to become clearly gentle as he stroked the white mane of the steed.
Whatever was in that water worked like a miracle. Soon, his horse was trotting near the tents, followed by the strange foal.
Damen tried to understand… Was this real? Was it a dying dream after falling from the horse? Everything seemed like the veretian tales: dark, easy to etch in memory, and crafted to frighten children.
The fae’s blue eyes turned to look at him, though any warmth they might have held had been reserved solely for his steed.
— Why don’t you come to the fire and tell me why you came? You are very far from home, akielon.
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